


Break, Not Bend

by Tortellini



Series: 30 Days of Writing (August '17) [25]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, 30-Day Fic Meme, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Conflict, Fear, Flashbacks, Internal Conflict, Letters, Major Spoilers, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Sad, Sad Ending, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Letters, Suicide Notes, Trauma, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 08:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12128520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tortellini/pseuds/Tortellini
Summary: 30 Days of Writing, Day 27: LetterFandom: It (Stephen King) (2017)After getting a phone call, Stanley Uris writes a letter before he takes a bath.Oneshot





	Break, Not Bend

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["If I'm to die"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/324123) by Keaton Henson. 



Stanley Uris, unsurprisingly, had grown up to be a successful man. Anyone from his hometown would've probably expected it, if they remembered the serious Jewish boy who always liked things to be just right in the first place. Stan himself couldn't remember much of his childhood if he was going to be honest. To be fair, he didn't try very hard. 

He had become an accountant. It'd made a lot of money, and he liked the way the numbers lined up neatly. He liked the fact that he made a lot of money too: his house was big, old and grand, with large windows and oak doors. Paintings too--no Modigliani, though, for some reason he was firm about that. 

And bird feeders outside, of course. Stan still loved to watch the birds. 

* * *

Right now, the tv was on, and Patricia Uris was watching it just as she waited for her husband. Her favorite blanket was across her lap. The tv show was something lighthearted--The Big Bang Theory, because believe it or not Stan did have a weakness for comedy. She loved to watch him out of the corner of her eye and see the small smile he was trying to hide, see his own eyes light up ever so slightly. 

They'd been married for nearly six years now.

"Sweetheart, you better hurry up," Pat called, glancing over her shoulder to the kitchen where Stan was washing the dishes. He grunted in response to let her know he'd heard her. She rolled her eyes fondly, and turned the volume up so he'd be able to hear it. Stan had OCD and he needed to do everything a certain way at the same time each day; Pat understood that, and went along with it patiently. After all, him washing dishes before he came to sit with her wasn't a big deal. 

At last though, he was done; he came down the hallway and into the living room, wiping his hands on the dishtowel. Stan was very handsome. Neither of them were exceptionally young anymore, Pat being thirty-eight and Stan almost forty now. But he was tall, with a serious face and curly hair. Pat wondered what he must've looked like as a kid sometimes. 

She'd joked before that he was probably a nerd back then. Stan had laughed, but he'd sort of looked at her blankly afterwards. Like he hadn't remembered for sure if he really had been one or not. 

He sat down on the couch next to her then, and she cupped his cheek, stroking it with her thumb gently, before kissing him. Their lives were perfect right now. Pat wouldn't ever want to change a single thing. 

"I love you, Stanny."

The phone rang before he could say anything back. 

Stan smiled apologetically and pressed another kiss to Pat's lips. "Hold that thought and I'll be right back."

She laughed and shook her head: "Hurry though, your show is starting soon!" 

* * *

"Uris residence, Stan speaking." Stanley Uris said into the phone, leaning against the wall in the hallway. He tapped his nails against the table a bit impatiently; looking down, his bird book was on it and open. That made him smile. 

"Stan Uris? This is Mike Hanlon speaking."

Stan's throat felt very dry then. When he spoke, his voice sounded like a croak. "What did you say?"

"Mike Hanlon," said the voice. "From Derry."

_A synagogue with bright stain glass windows. Paved streets beneath a crisp blue sky. Playing in a river full of sharp rocks. A soft boy's voice with a chronic stutter; bright eyes and crooked glasses; a cast with ~~LOSER~~ LOVER scribbled on it. A boy's room full of newspaper clippings--of missing kids. _

_A woman with a terrible face and needle teeth. Screaming so hard, voice cracking, back pressed against a wet concrete wall. A dead little boy in a yellow rain slicker._

"Stan? Stan, stay with me. Listen. You need to tell me how much you remember."

"...everything," he whispered. "I remember everything."

"You remember It?"

_The clown. The fucking clown and its eyes rolling back in its head, the jaw opening up and him seeing those-those lights... The dead lights..._

"I know this is a lot to think about right now. I'm sorry. But...Stan, It's come back." 

Stan put his face in his hands. He didn't say anything right away either. It was too much. All too much. He felt like he was going to be sick... 

"Remember your promise, Stan. Can I count on you? Will you be here? I'm in the process of calling the others. Everyone has to come back." Mike was saying in a deep, soothing voice. His head spun though. And when he spoke, Stan's voice was quiet. 

"...I'll be there. It was nice to hear from you, Mike." 

Slowly then, he hung up. 

Patricia looked up; the noise of the tv in the background made his skin crawl. "Who was on the phone, sweetheart?"

The room felt too big. "No one. I'm going to go take a bath."

"Are you all right?" 

"Fine," he said distractedly. "I'm fine."

"Stan, what's going--?"

He ignored her and walked up the stairs very slowly. A plan was already forming in his mind. He knew what he was going to do. It was clear to him now. It'd be easy--it'd be better for him, for his friends. The best friends he'd ever had in his whole entire life, who he had forgotten.

He remembered Bill, with his solemn eyes and his stutter; Bill's hands on his shoulders, the pressure grounding him, when he had hyperventilated in the sewers all those years ago. He remembered Richie too, goddamn Richie, who had a grin as crooked as his glasses and for the life of him never shut up; Richie, in that garage, throwing his arms out in an attempt to protect them. Then Eddie, who was sick except not really, who was nervous all the time, but so defiant too, and who looked at Richie in the way Stan looked at Pat now. Ben, and Mike, and Bev: Mike, quiet and steadfast, saying something about how this hadn't been a dream. Ben, a poet at heart. Bev, the only girl, with the bathroom sink. 

Stan hoped they were doing well, as he went into the bathroom. 

* * *

 Stan's handwriting was neat, scrawled and loopy. He sat on the toilet seat, determined to do this this before he did anything else. After all, for as long as he could remember, he liked to do things a certain way and in a certain order. Everything had their place. 

> _Tell my friends goodbye_
> 
> _Tell my almost ex-wife that I loved her, and left her too soon_

He didn't cry. He didn't, he wasn't lying--Stanley Uris had always been serious. But his hands shook, bad enough that he had to stop more than once and take a few deep breaths; he hoped whoever found this would be able to read it. Once his hands had steadied again, he continued. 

>   _Give my family love_
> 
> _I would watch from above_
> 
> _But I fear there is nothing but sleep_

Stan was almost done. He hoped his friends understood. He hoped Patricia forgave him inside for what he was about to do. His breathing was deep and even. He didn't know why he was so calm. He just was. 

> _Tell all my good friends_
> 
> _That I didn't dare earn their respect_

There. Done. Stan got undressed and melodically folded all of his clothes, before setting them on the toilet seat. He looked around the room. The mirror was in the corner. He was afraid, but he wasn't a coward. He remembered that woman's face. He remembered the feeling of her teeth sunk into the side of his face. And he couldn't ever face it again. 

The razor was on a towel from that morning--just that morning, he almost couldn't believe it. Shaving was such a normal thing. Such a safe thing.

 He picked it up. 

* * *

Patricia Uris had been married to her husband for nearly six years. He had OCD. He had a routine. Him getting up to take a bath at...7:27 pm was unusual if not unheard of. And he hadn't come back down yet either. 

She was a little bit worried now. So she headed up the stairs. 

"Stan? Are you coming back down?"

The bathroom door was at the end of the hallway. In slow motion she walked over...and just like that, her life fell apart.  


End file.
